Jocky from The Tartan Special One on Scottish Independence
Published: Thursday 30th October 2014
Despite Scotland having officially voted 'no' to independence in the referendum in September, the debate continues. Below Jocky - the moustachioed, mononymous megaphone-wielding Dundee FC football manager from cult comedy book 'The Tartan Special One' - offers his thoughts on the subject.
There was nae better place tae watch Scotland's future be decided than the Fairmuir. It's Dundee's premier working man's club, a place whaur Tartan Special beer is plentiful and competitively priced, the resident drug dealer is never short o' custom and the gloryhole in the gents' toilet is manned with a willing, and if yer lucky, denture-free, mooth. Dundee's elite auld age pensioners do not go gentle into that good night; around here raging against the dying o' the light involves getting wrecked on Class A drugs and offering the Grim Reaper half a pill and a blowjob.
Picture the orgy scene in Caligula wi' a game o' bingo amidst a' the shagging and you're on the right track.
Referendum fever tore through the clubbie like the outbreak o' Chlamydia that swept through the place when the condom machine broke on the night o' a recent charity gangbang. Such passion for politics hadnae been as tangible since that auld bag Maggie Thatcher was being an utter cunt tae the populace north o' Watford.
Mind her? Tory burd wha had a timeshare on the Falklands and didnae appreciate Argentina moving in on the market. Made o' iron and didnae like turning or some shite like that.
Back then the Fairmuir was a hotbed of Labour-supporting political activism. Fuelled by fierce backing fae the club's regulars, a steady flow of Special and the Luftwaffe-grade amphetamines Bert Ogilvie was dealing fae the disabled bog, firebrand politicians gathered to plan the downfall of Conservative rule.
You'll be familiar wi' George Galloway. Boy's fae Dundee! George was in the Fairmuir every fucking night getting right aff his tits on speed and campaigning tae get Thatcher away tae fuck. He might've managed it tae, had he only followed meh advice.
"George ye big ride, how's this for a plan," said I as we sat snorting lines aff auld Jeanie McKay's bare tits. "What ye need tae dae is get yourself on a national TV show based around the premise of an Orwellian dystopia and act like a fuckin' pussy cat wi' Rula Lenska. What say you, cunto?"
George dismissed the idea. Thought it was a little too radical. Fair enough, George.
Imagine meh surprise when some 20-odd years later eh tuned intae Celebrity Big Brother and saw the cunt doing exactly as eh'd advised years previously.
"FUCK SAKE, GEORGE! IT'S TOO LATE NOW, YA CUNT! THATCHER'S FUCKING LONG GONE! SHE'S CHILLING IN HER FALKLANDS HOLIDAY HOME SMOKING BONES DUG FAE GRAVES IN FORMER MINING COMMUNITIES!"
Good laddie is oor George, but he needs tae listen tae sound advice when it comes his way, ken?
The referendum brought aboot a chance for Scotland tae become the master o' its own destiny, and big questions needed tae be answered.
Should we continue tae be governed by Westminster? The general consensus here was it's the equivalent o' a social club in London deciding whether the Fairmuir can get a late license tae host a hip-hop all-nighter. What business o' theirs is it if we've got the Wu Tang Clan flyin' in fae New York and MC Wullie Inglis on the bus fae Arbroath tae party until teatime the next day?
Why the fuck dae we need nuclear-fuckin'-missiles in this country? Personally eh hae tae question who exactly we're tooled up tae defend ourselves against. Al Qaeda? Those cunts are sound. We invited their darts team over for a game against oor team a while back and there was nae trouble whatsoever. Even when we pumped them they were cool. Auld Tam McGinty started singing "Where's Osama Gone?" and they thought it was funny as fuck. The only Jihad bein' declared was by me when eh was short-changed 10p at the bar.
As for the NHS, well it's important it continues tae exist withoot privatisation. There are far too many shagging-related broken hips aroond these parts for the health service tae be anythin' but free.
The night o' the referendum itself was one helluva party. Havin' spent the day ootside the local polling station threatening tae set oor pals fae the Al Qaeda darts team on any cunt voting No, a'body got settled in tae watch the results come in.
Tell ye what, when the announcement was made that Dundee voted Yes by what turned oot tae be the widest margin in the country, the place went mental. Zimmer frames in the air, wave 'em aboot like ye just don't care. Jeanie McKay stripped aff and did an excitement-shite on Joe McGonagall's lap. Auld Joe's in a wheelchair and couldnae dae a great deal aboot it. No' that he was particularly concerned, Joe's intae that kind o' thing.
It went downhill fae there. Scotland voted No. Which was bitterly disappointing, ken? For the staunch independence crowd it felt like we'd collectively shat on everything Mel Gibson and the Proclaimers stood for. Thankfully by that point every cunt was wired on coke Tony Montana would approve of and we partied on regardless. Democracy, cunto.
So, what next? If yer intae sex, drugs and the occasional game o' darts, eh might suggest ye get behind the campaign for the formation o' the People's Republic of Fairmuir.
If ye want tae rage against the dying o' the light this is the place tae dae it.
With thanks to Barry Phillips for writing this for BCG. You can follow the story of Dundee FC's Lloyd, Bob and Jocky in 'The Tartan Special One', available in paperback and on Kindle via tecklebooks.co.uk
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